


Reunion

by Skyepilot



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Baking, Cooking, Coulson bakes when he needs to unwind, Daisy stealing Coulson's clothes and wearing them, F/M, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Kissing, Mack and Coulson as partners, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Speculation, coulson feeding daisy, kitchen makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7454485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/pseuds/Skyepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skoulson RomFest 2k16 REDUX - DAY 1 · 18 July<br/>baking</p><p>Coulson regroups and bakes after 6 Months Later, with the idea of seeing Daisy in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunion

He takes the reassignment a little hard. At first.

It was perfectly obvious what it meant.  His last chance to prove himself useful to the ATCU. Blown.

His last chance to get to her before they did; before they unleash the full force of the US government against her.

He hates not feeling useful.

The former Director of SHIELD, and his relationship with rogue SHIELD Agent Daisy Johnson follows him around like a target on his back at the ATCU.

What he’s going to do, though, is dig in now.  Sure, they can send him chasing after the unwanted cases in backwater towns, like he’s a joke.

He knows how to work the system, though.  Already he’s seeing the holes and patterns in what they’re doing.  The slow build of corruption within the system.

Daisy taught him that.  She would be proud, he hopes.

Taking a swig out of the whiskey bottle, he looks at the board again, thinking about patterns, when he hears a key turn in the lock of his apartment.

Setting the bottle down on the countertop, he reaches into the drawer and slowly draws out a knife.

“Man, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Mack is standing there, at the entrance to the kitchen, holding a bag of groceries and staring at the mess on the countertop.

“Peach pecan pie, with bourbon,” Coulson answers, and slides the butter knife across the pastry dough on the floured surface. “Peaches are in season right now,” he adds with a smirk.

“Heavy on the bourbon, by the looks of it,” Mack sighs, lifting the half-empty bottle.  Then he shakes his head.  “I haven’t heard from you in two days. I was worried sick, and you’re _baking_?”

“Sorry,” he answers and gives him a sympathetic grimace.

“So, this is what you do when you stress?” He asks, as he sets the groceries on the tiny remainder of counter space.

“Stress? No,” Coulson says, sticking his tongue out to make very neat, even slices for the pie lattice crust.  “This is what I do when I’m thinking about _a lot_ , and need to get out of my head for a while.”

“I don’t get you.  You hit those meds hard, barely ate or slept for six months,” he says, grumbling, as he starts to unload the groceries.

“At first, yeah. And what did it get me?” he answers, a little light in his eyes, as he glances up. “Disgraced? Demoted?  I’m a wash up, who’s going to pay attention to me now?”

“Did you do this on purpose?” Mack asks, narrowing his eyes as he takes a beer out of the fridge.

“Daisy won’t contact me, if the ATCU is watching my every move.”

“You planned this together,” Mack huffs, and pops the top off the beer. “Should’ve known. You’ll never give up.”

“Not on her,” Coulson answers, seriously, and then starts to lay the crust in layers over the top of the pie.  “And there’s not a plan.  Yet.  It’s just a feeling.”

“Uh huh,” Mack nods. “I hope you _plan_ on counting me in.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he tells him, happy to hear it, dusting off his hands. “I just needed you to be able to have a choice.”

Mack frowns, then rolls his eyes. “You want me to stay on the inside, don’t you?”

“I think that makes sense, don’t you?” He goes to open the oven and slips the pie in as Mack mulls it over.

“Who taught you to bake? Your mom?”

“Yeah,” he says, starting to clean up. “When she had time. Latch-key kid.  It started with her, and then I took it from there.”

He stops to take another nip of the bourbon and holds the bottle up to Mack’s.

“Cheers.”

 

#

“Mmm, so good,” she says, holding the fork near her mouth as she chews.

“Thanks.”

Still wearing his apron, he leans against the kitchen counter while she devours the peach cake with sour cream frosting he just made this evening.

The disguise she’s wearing this time is so incongruous to her, he actually had to hold back a laugh when he opened the front door.

He takes her all in now.  Her hair has grown out, and the white button-down, minus the grey suit jacket flipped over the back of the chair.

“Nice tie,” he chirps, looking at the silver grey and navy wide stripes.

“Thought you’d like that,” she smiles, and loosens it, unbuttoning the top button, and sighing as she sets the fork down.

“I’d ask where you were coming from, but, I’ll probably read about it tomorrow.”

“Not this time,” she tells him, sitting back on the counter stool.

“Why? Are you planning to rob a casino now?”

“No,” she grins, sly and mock-appalled; immediately getting the reference to what seems like a whole other lifetime between them.  “And you know that bank had Malick’s HYDRA money.”

“I know,” he teases, peering over the rim of his cocktail glass.

“Cute apron.”  Looking him up and down, she rests her chin against her hand. “Where’s it from?”

“It was my mother’s,” he says, looking down at the checkered pattern trimmed with eyelet ribbon. Leaning forward with his elbows on the counter, he swirls the bourbon around the glass.

“Okay, that’s _adorable_ ,” she gushes, then raises her eyebrows, as she reaches out with a finger and taps it against the rim of his glass. “Now, where can I get one of those?”

“Oh, how rude of me,” he says, standing up and turning around in the small kitchen to open up the cabinet and get out a matching glass.

He scoots by her to open the fridge and get out a single large ice cube, then sets the glass down and pours the liquor over it, until she says when.

“This _is_ a reunion of sorts,” he says, raising his glass to hers and they bump them together and she takes a drink.

“That’s what you said. About getting the gang back together.  Do you have some kind of plan?”

“I need your help poking some holes first,” he answers.  Then, he realizes he’s caught. That he’s staring too hard.

“You know this is your tie, right?” she deadpans, running her fingers down the length of it.

That’s not what he was thinking about, but, okay. Her delight in laughing at him as he narrows his eyes at her, only makes him want to play along more.

He grabs at the end of the tie, careful in how he touches her, and flips it to look at the label. 

It _is_ one of his. “Seriously?” he says, caught off guard.

“I wanted something to remember you by.” She’s suddenly too tender and sincere, too heavy for the moment. Her voice tugs at him so easily.

“You stole my tie.  That’s, sweet, _I guess_ ,” he goes on, flustered, and reaches for his glass.  “Such a criminal.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Her eyes dart up and him, and there’s an undercurrent there.  Familiar, if he’s being honest, but an edge he hasn’t danced around in a long time.

“Actually, I wouldn’t,” he tells her, trying not to fumble, and stares down at the glass between his hands. 

There’s no SHIELD between them, anymore.  None of his litany of excuses to hide behind, either.

“This is nice, though.”  She stands, and takes her drink to peer at his Quake collage board. 

He feels her hand touch his wrist and then she leans forward and gives him a brief kiss on the cheek. 

“Thanks for the cake.”

He doesn’t know what to do with that.  He thinks about her asking him to be her friend, once. Talking about their friendship.  But, surely-

“That’s sweet.”

She's watching him with a mix of curiosity and amusement, and he's ready to fill the silence with anything or _everything_ , when she puts a hand on his shoulder, as he follows her movement, then steps nearer, her eyes widening slightly, before she kisses him softly on the mouth.

He forgets to breathe for a moment.  He forgets she came here to plan a mission with him.  She’s the only thing in front of him.

And this is why he isn’t Director anymore, and this is why he still feels so human, even though everything has fallen apart.

“ _Daisy_.”

“Was that… _sweet_?”

“Yes,” he answers, searching for the answer, feeling something like bravery start to warm him up inside.  He clears his throat.  “A little too sweet.”

His fingers slide along her cheek, caressing her face as his thumb traces across the small scar that Hive left there.

“I missed you,” he tells her, before he dips his head to kiss her, tasting her, even with the flavor of bourbon and peaches covering it, trying to memorize it and capture it all at once.

When her mouth opens under his, a wave of heat and desire travel down his body, as she slips her tongue against his.

He curses under his breath, pulling back in a trained reaction, in surprise at the raw emotions coming to the surface. The way his body feels so out of control.

“Sorry,” she says, wiping at his bottom lip with her thumb, her fingers touching the stubble of his half-grown beard.  “Did I come on too strong?”

“No,” he shakes his head at her worried look. “No. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this way.”  Maybe the only time, he’s wondering, but he doesn’t want to say that just yet. 

“That’s sweet,” she answers, touching her forehead to his, running her fingers along the stubble on his jaw, pressing her mouth against his, closing her eyes to try at it, again.

This time, he gives in to the feeling, stops trying to understand it, deepening the kiss between them, and trapping her between him and the counter, as he leaves a trail with his mouth along her neck, her jaw.

He pushes the glasses down the counter, then helps her up onto it, insinuates himself between her thighs as she tugs on the apron’s waist to draw him in, moaning with him at the contact between their bodies.

He wonders if she’s felt alone all this time.  She should never _have_ to feel alone. 

“What are we going to do, when people find out I just kissed the ex-Director of SHIELD?” she asks, her eyelashes tickling his cheek.

He pulls back to see a tentative smile on her face, but he knows there has to be some seriousness there. 

How far they want this to go. The anti-Inhuman sentiment that pulled them apart to begin with.

When Talbot finds out.  When _the President_ finds out.

“Tell them how great I am in the kitchen?” he answers, like it’s just that simple.

“ _Only_ the kitchen?” she says, looking indignant.  “We should definitely get you out of that apron.”

She pushes him back playfully, hopping off the counter, and then grasps him by the hand.

He smiles and lets her pull him after her.


End file.
